It is a few weeks after the meeting of Congress. All Washington is on
the _qui vive_ about the passage of the ---- Bill, and the appeal to be
made in its favor by the new member from ----.
Constance Lyle stands before her mirror. More than usual care has she
bestowed on her toilet.
We will play eavesdropper, dear reader, just for once, and peep over
her shoulder, to view the changes time has made. No longer the fresh,
brilliant beauty of her youthful days. Constant confinement in the
sickroom, care, and anxiety have faded the roses that used to bloom on
her cheeks; but to us she is more charming, this pale beauty, with her
gentle dignity, and sweet, patient look, than the bright, merry girl
of years ago.
There is something about her which makes us think we would like ever
to be near her, side by side, to pass on life's pathway, feeling sure
her beauty would never wane, but wax purer and brighter as she neared
her journey's end. Listen! She says:
"How strange my birthday should be the one for his speech! This day I
shall see him for the first time for fifteen years. Yes, I am
thirty-three to-day, and this is the anniversary of our parting!"
Leaving her room she is soon by her father's side.
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